Companions
by vlalekat
Summary: UPDATED TO INCLUDE NJADA II - A collection of vignettes about the Companions. Athis discovers Njada's dark secret and has to decide whether to keep it or turn her in. Rated T because I'd rather be safe on ratings. Reviewing is good for the soul!
1. Ria

Companions: Ria

Disclaimer: Bethesda and ZeniMax have made something awesome. I just like to play in it.

Notes: I'm going back through some old work and editing and revising it. I'll slowly be adding to this anthology as I complete updates. Feedback is always appreciated!

* * *

When they were little girls, Ria and Sabrin had dreamed of becoming warrior maids. Running through the streets of Skingrad with sticks for weapons, they'd always stopped before the doors of the Fighter's Guild and watched through the windows. The men and women inside had seemed impossibly brave and tall, their armor gleaming and faces hard-set.

Ria lived on one side of the lane and Sabrin on the other; their parents were both merchants, though Ria's father specialized in importing delicacies from other parts of the Empire and Sabrin's had a shop selling fine textiles. Each girl had a tutor and after their lessons, their tutors would allow them to spend some time together in one home's garden or the other while the older women drank tea and gossiped. It was during these hours that the girls would get into the most trouble, with one of the tutors sighing, "When your mother hears about this…" The tutors seemed to take turns saying this, and there was never a day where one of them failed to say it.

Though both were Imperial by birth, Sabrin was nearly as fair as Ria was dark. Her great-grandmother had been a Nord, and the blonde hair and blue eyes had passed down through the line; Sabrin's skin was pale and rosy and sprinkled with tan freckles; she stood nearly a head taller than Ria, though she was born at the end of Last Seed where Ria had been nearly walking by then.

Ria was dark, and small, and quick, with delicate bones and fine wrists. Sabrin always said that the older girl had eyes like an ember.

And so the girls learned sums and music and dancing - all appropriate things for young ladies who aspired to the upper class to learn – and meanwhile they dreamed of picking up swords and running off and having adventures. They'd grown up hearing stories of the Hero of Kvatch, of great deeds and sacrifice, and as children, these possibilities seemed so real, so exciting.

They didn't know yet what fear was.

"Someday," Sabrin told her as they hid under the giant leaves of a bush that grew at the back end of her garden, "We'll have armor that shines in the sunlight, and swords so sharp that they will cut through bone. We'll save whole towns from marauding orcs and rescue children held hostage."

Ria thought she'd take just about any armor that would stop a blade, whether it was dented or not.

* * *

It was shortly after Ria's tenth birthday the day they first heard about the Companions.

As usual, they'd escaped their tutors and were on their way to lurk in front of the Fighter's Guild to see if the windows might be open and they could hear some of the boasts the warriors would tell each other. Ria was getting old enough to tell that some of them might be tall tales, or at least embellishments, but Sabrin still loved them, and there was likely still some truth to the stories.

As they neared the gate, they saw three men and a woman enter the city; four Nords, tall enough to see over the Imperials lingering near the gate. All had fearsome painted designs on their faces, and two of the men wore queer-looking, heavy armor with fur lining. His skin glistened with sweat in the Imperial humidity. They were laughing as they headed for the West Weald Inn, even though they were exhausted and dusty from the road. She felt a longing in her stomach as she watched them adjust their weapons with practiced ease. The oldest man, the one with the braids, opened the door to the Inn and the foursome walked in.

Ria stopped Sabrin with a hand on her friend's arm and pointed to the two warriors. "Who do you think they are?"

"Probably Companions from Skyrim," Sabrin said, her voice a little dismissive. "I've heard about them in stories from my mother. She says one of my great-great grandfathers was in the Companions, but it sounds like they're little more than barbarians." She sniffed. "We better get going."

Ria allowed herself to be dragged down the street by her friend, but she kept looking back, wondering what stories the travelers might have.

* * *

She heard a few of them that very night.

Nearly frantic with yearning to know more, she'd waited until she knew her parents were settled by the fire, and pulled her dress back on. In the next room, she could hear the rise and fall of her tutor's quiet breathing. She held her slippers in her hands and snuck down the stairs.

Mother and Father were laughing quietly by the fire, each with a cup of wine in their hands; neither looked towards the door as Ria eased it quietly open and stepped outside. Slowly – so, _so_ slowly – she shut the door behind herself and looked around.

She'd never been out alone after dark before – it wasn't "becoming," whatever that meant – and it was amazing to her how beautiful the city looked, all burning lamps and dark shadows. It felt dangerous to be out alone even though it couldn't be later than half past eight, and she felt a thrill in her step as she slid one slipper onto each foot.

She hadn't bothered to ask Sabrin on this trip, and it was the first time she'd avoided sharing something exciting as this with her best friend. But even though she thought of Sabrin as a sister, she kept hearing that derisive little sniff in her friend's voice, and wondered idly how Sabrin could think so little of such impressive warriors. For the first time, she wondered a little if she and her friend still shared the same goal.

Sneaking into the West Weald Inn was short work; despite her nerves and buckling knees, she walked through the front door as if she belonged there and headed upstairs. It was easy enough to hide behind the bannister at the top of the stairs and hear everything; at this hour, most all the patrons were downstairs drinking and eating. The inn was busy enough that no one noticed her.

The Companions were seated by the fire and - judging by the bottles on their table - had been there for quite some time. They were jolly with wine, and the younger blond man in the finely-wrought leather armor kept making toasts.

"To the orcs!" He'd toast. Or, later: "To the Imperials!" It sounded as if there was nothing he _wouldn't_ drink to. She wondered what the orcs had done to deserve a toast.

Ria peered through the bars that held up the bannister and smiled. He seemed a merry sort.

The woman leaned against one of the men in the heavy armor, her dark auburn hair mingling with the shadows. He smiled then did something strange – he sniffed her hair, and then nuzzled the top of her head with his nose.

Somehow, these four Companions seemed more interesting, more _vital _than the members of the Fighter's Guild ever did. For a moment, Ria remembered Sabrin's comment about barbarians and wondered why her friend would make such a claim. But it was a brief thought, because the oldest man at the table was beginning to regale the woman and the blond man – who was looking very drunk indeed, after all his toasts – with a story involving some orcs.

"It must have been twenty orcs," the man was saying. His voice was rich, and his accent was the most musical thing Ria had ever heard. It reminded her of when she heard her tutor singing in the bath, but somehow was even better – the deepness of it resonated, and something about just the tenor of it made her listen more raptly. "Every one of them was angry and ready to kill us."

"Mayhap it was more like twenty-five," the younger man in heavy armor cut in. The woman smiled at him indulgently, and he smiled back at her, then leaned in and – quick as you can – kissed her on the forehead.

"Mayhap it was," the older man said. He paused again, took a drink from the cup before him. "And all were armed to the teeth. But we'd promised to clear the mine and had taken payment, and a Companion's word is his honor."

The blond man gave a laugh that was part snort. "I'm surprised you made it."

"Well, it's rare to win a fight worth having with no scars," the older man admitted. He pointed to the scar over his white eye, the angry red line that sliced through his brow. From here, Ria couldn't see what made it look so weird, but it looked different from the other eye. "They got me pretty good."

The blond man laughed. "I've seen worse, old man."

They all laughed at that.

Ria lingered, listening to their stories for the next couple hours. When they began to break up and leave for bed, she realized what time it was – long after midnight, and she had better sneak home before she was missed. Her parents would were impatient enough with her wild trips through the city – they would be furious if they found out she snuck out after dark.

As she made her way home that night, she stuck to the shadows and stepped into alleyways when she heard people coming. She missed three town guards and a young man that she thought must surely be a cutpurse from the catlike way he moved down the walk. And all the time, she kept hearing the older man's voice saying, "It's rare to win a fight worth having with no scars."

* * *

She snuck into the West Weald Inn the next three nights and listened to their stories. Sometimes the blond man told boastful tales that all seemed to end with a buxom wench in his bed; other times, the woman would talk of tracking prey through a forest. Sometimes the woman and the man in the heavy armor – Ria thought they must be lovers – would argue and when they scrapped, it was like two dogs fighting over a bit of meat. Their fights seemed to always end with a passionate run back to their shared room, earning them a frown from Erina over the bar.

It was the third night that it happened: as she was leaving the inn, the older man caught her. She felt his hand on her shoulder, firm but gentle, and she turned.

His face was lined with more wrinkles than she'd realized; this close she could see the shadow of a blue iris. A network of red lines formed a design on one cheek, but for all his fearsome qualities, the expression he gave her was kind, even warm. His smile seemed genuine, where so many in Skingrad were false.

"What brings you here, girl?"

Ria thought for a long moment. "The stories."

This brought a smile to the man's face. If it weren't for the scar and the face paint, he might have been her grandfather.

"Yes, the young ones do know how to tell a good tale," he sighed.

"I want to be a Companion," Ria blurted out. She hadn't actually considered it before that moment but as soon as the words were out, she realized that yes, this was exactly what she wanted.

"An Imperial Companion," the older man mused. "That would be _something._" He met her eyes again, and it unsettled her how the white eye moved. It seemed as if it could still see, but how?

"I am Kodlak," he said to her.

"Ria." She was not afraid.

He smiled again. "Come see me in six years' time, Ria, and we will talk about your future."

* * *

Ria became obsessed. She asked every minstrel she could find for a song or a story about the Companions, and eventually heard the one about Skjor and Kodlak – that was the one who'd told her to see him! – fighting off a horde of over a hundred orcs (ah, but _she_ knew it was many times fewer!).

Sabrin quickly tired of Ria's constant pestering for stories of the Companions. "I don't _know_ any stories about them," was her refrain.

But Ria kept on. By the year's end, she'd finally discovered that the Companions were based in a city called Whiterun, far to the northeast and over the border, in Skyrim.

She tried to find out everything she could about Skyrim, but most everyone she talked to had the same attitude of Sabrin, mumbling about barbarians and snow and how she'd be mad to care about Skyrim with the Imperial City right up the road.

A fire had been lit inside of her, one that burned brightly for frost-tipped spires and the mountain she'd heard of, called the Throat of the World.

This was the year that Sabrin discovered boys. Once crude beings that spat in the streets and made a variety of unappealing smells, suddenly boys were all she spoke of. She began to wear her hair down instead of the braid she'd always favored, and laughed at every ludicrous thing the boys said. When Ria wanted to head down to the Fighter's Guild to see if any of the members would teach her a move or two with a sword, her friend would laugh in that derisive way and say that she had better things to do.

It was during dinner one night that summer that Ria's mother first mentioned marriage. Her little sister, at the far end of the table, gave out a giggle.

"But I'm barely eleven!" Ria complained.

"It's never too early," Mother scolded. "Eat your pease."

With talk of marriage and Sabrin attempting to flirt with boys, Ria sometimes felt she was the only one staying still with everyone else changing around her.

She always spent her late afternoons at the Fighter's Guild now. She'd found an older woman willing to teach her how to use a small sword and shield. Though Ria had no money for her own gear, the woman – a Redguard named Isa – was happy to let the girl borrow hers. They'd drill for at least an hour and then, when Ria was warmed up, they'd spar.

Without fail, Isa would win. Ria was often left with bruises to hide and stories of tripping down stairs to concoct. One afternoon, Isa pulled Ria's long braid to gain the upper hand, tugging on it to pull the girl off balance and then disarming her before she could get her feet back under her.

"That wasn't fair," the girl cried from her back on the hard stone floor.

"Fair doesn't matter if you're dead." The Redguard's face was impassive beneath her turban. She held her wooden practice sword at Ria's throat for a moment longer, as if to make her point, then moved it to one side and helped the girl up.

But the point was made; the next day, Ria took a small knife and cut her hair to chin length. Her mother cried and locked her in her room for a couple days, but by week's end, Ria was back out with her friend, watching Sabrin try to flirt with the boys and wondering when she'd be able to get away to practice with Isa again.

* * *

Armor was the most difficult hurdle. Ria could think of no better way to get it than to sell something of value, but she didn't have much. She had some nice dresses, but nothing ornamental enough to afford a set of armor, and she had no jewelry to speak of. Sabrin was no help with ideas – by now her friend had gone off the idea of being a fighter entirely and, at fifteen, spent all her time planning her wedding to the son of another merchant, who specialized in fertilizer.

Imagine: married forever to a man who sold dung for a living. Ria thought she'd rather die.

But somehow, despite how distant they'd grown, it was Sabrin who gave her the idea. Not intentionally, of course, but one afternoon as the two girls sat in Sabrin's family's garden drinking tea – and when, exactly, had they become tea-drinkers? – Sabrin mentioned the number of young men who had sent her family gifts in an attempt at securing a betrothal.

"Naturally, we didn't keep them," Sabrin chattered. Ria looked at her friend, at her carefully styled blonde hair and the pearl-embroidered neckline of her gown, and wondered when exactly Sabrin had turned into the kind of girl they used to mock.

It was easy enough for Ria to find young men who were looking for marriage. She didn't aim nearly as high as Sabrin did, being content with those who would soon inherit shops selling dry goods or other wares. Those who worked in successful businesses were able to send enviable enough bride-gifts, and before long, a small pile had amassed in the entry way.

Ria didn't harbor any illusions that this had much to do with her, or her somewhat questionable charms. She knew what kind of connections her father had, and knew that most young merchants would be anxious to access them. It didn't matter; it was the value of the items she was after.

Early one morning, long before the sun came up, she climbed out of bed. She carefully pulled on some clothes she'd stolen from her younger brother: a tunic, pair of roughspun trousers, a heavy and unembellished cloak. She carried her rucksack and the boots under her arm. Downstairs, in the kitchen, she packed a loaf of bread, salt pork, some cheese, a flagon of water.

In the front hall, she took every last piece of jewelry and stuffed it in the bag; altogether, it should fetch a nice price. She hoped it would be enough to cover armor and a sword and passage to Whiterun; while she felt bad about the young men losing what they'd spent to woo her, she found that she felt less badly about it than expected. Perhaps they should have known it would be a waste; perhaps her parents should have known she would never marry some dull and reedy boy and live out her days in Skingrad.

Last of all, she left a note on the table in place of the necklaces and rings. It simply told her family thank you for their care over the years and not to worry about her.

She was off to become a legend.


	2. Athis

Companions: Athis

Disclaimer: Bethesda and ZeniMax have made something awesome. I just like to play in it.

Notes: If you've read anything else I've written, you may notice some slight discrepancies between what the universe gives us and my interpretation. Sometimes I make changes for better story-telling effect, and sometimes it's because I believe the in-game source may be considered unreliable and the "truth" may be somewhat different. I will use this ability to change things judiciously, but if that bothers you, read something else.

* * *

No matter what he did, it seemed Athis was always inadequate.

His feet were heavy as he walked down the stairs to the bedchambers beneath Jorrvaskr. Each footfall echoed in the stairwell, a low, plodding sound that echoed the thundering bellows of shame in his head.

Defeated by a damn wolf. It just wasn't right. He should be better than this.

He opened the door and looked down the hall. No one was there, thank goodness. He'd seen Torvar and Vilkas sparring in the yard, and inside the hall, Njada and Aela were drinking.

"Back so soon, new blood?" Njada had jeered at him as he walked by. He wanted to turn, to challenge her, but before he could, the thought struck him that there was no point.

He would just lose, just as he had to that freakish wolf that was still terrorizing the Western end of the hold. Something had been wrong with that animal.

They should have sent Aela, she was the hunter, he reflected sourly as he trudged down the hall. If only this hadn't been his test. If only it had been something else, something – anything – he'd been prepared for…although he wondered now if he'd just been setting himself up to fail from the beginning. If the fortune and glory of being a Companion had always been out of his reach.

The hall was wide, dim, and the torches flickered. It was warm down here, and felt safe, and the pleasure it gave him made him still angrier with himself to think that now he would be kicked out.

There hadn't been a back-up plan; he wasn't supposed to fail. Somehow, for some reason, he'd thought that if he could just get to Whiterun, proving himself would be easy, and then he'd have a family, and a bed, and the shot at triumph that he'd always dreamt of.

He couldn't go back to Windhelm to live in that squalid stone pit they called the Grey Quarter; he hadn't the magical ability to attend the College at Winterhold, and thieving held no allure. What did that leave? Farming? He had no desire to spend his days pulling endless weeds or fretting over each frost – leave that for the Nords, or for those too afraid of the world.

That was the problem, perhaps; his ability, and he'd never learned to fear.

But all that time, all those years spent training with a sword – could this really be it?

Perhaps he could find work as a mercenary. But no one would want to hire a mercenary that couldn't even kill a stupid wolf. The story was probably out already; Njada Stone-bitch had probably already shared it with the rest of the Companions, and even if he wasn't told to pack up and get out, they'd taunt him forever about his first failure.

He'd reached the door at the far end of the hall and stood there for long moments. His breath was hot, shameful. It smelled of onions, he realized after a moment. But what did that matter?

Failure smelled of onions. That seemed fitting, somehow.

He was going to have to leave. They'd never let him be a Companion now.

From the other side of the door, Kodlak's voice sounded, "Come in, young man."

Athis opened the door and walked through, shutting it quietly behind him. Farkas was sitting next to the old man at a small table in the corner. The younger man's face was grim beneath the black paint around his eyes, but the older man seemed calm, almost beatific.

"I'll just be going then. I'll think about what you said," the big man stood. There was an inexplicable waft of wet dog as he strode past Athis, and then he was gone. The door closed quietly behind him.

"Have a seat," said Kodlak. Athis moved to the chair Farkas had been sitting in and took a moment to look around. He'd never seen Kodlak's sitting room before, and it was filled with treasures; here a giant's toe and a bunch of deathbells, and over there a display with beautiful, finely-wrought daggers inside.

What a pity he would never get to look around this place again, Athis thought absently. There was so much he would just have to wonder about.

"I take it from your face that the assignment didn't go well," Kodlak began. Athis hadn't even realized it, but as he tuned in now, he realized he was scowling.

He nodded, unable to meet Kodlak's eyes in his disgrace.

He was going to cry. He couldn't cry. Companions didn't cry.

"I failed," he finally said. His voice was flat. "I managed to drive the wolf off the homestead, but I failed to kill it. It will likely return."

Kodlak nodded, a small, enigmatic smile on his face. "So the wolf lives," he said, after a moment. "Ah, well."

And then, without considering it, Athis voiced what had been bothering him: "I lost. To a dumb animal. I'm sure you'll never let me be a Companion, and I don't blame you. But there was something unnatural about that wolf."

Kodlak crooked a wry eyebrow at him, and Athis somehow felt it was safe to continue, even though saying it seemed absurd.

"It was too big. And too smart. And I swear it walked on two feet." He paused. "Do you believe in werewolves?"

At this, Kodlak burst into laughter. Despite his chuckling, Athis didn't feel the old man was laughing at him.

"You may have failed at killing the wolf," the Harbinger said, filling a mug with a bottle of ale. "But you did return." He offered the mug to Athis, who took a long drink from it. The ale was frothy and warm and had a distinctly hoppy flavor, the way most ale in Whiterun did. He longed momentarily for the stouter, darker flavor of the drinks in Windhelm, but that was foolish.

He'd be back in the New Gnisis Corner Club with a mug of the house special before he knew it. No point in pining for what he'd have soon enough.

"It takes a lot of courage to own up to a failure," the old man said, taking a sip from his own mug. "The kind of courage we seek in our Companions."

He couldn't be hearing this right. Could he?

"Sir?"

"You came back here even though you did not succeed in your mission. You returned to Jorrvaskr though you knew in your heart that you would be discarded. I say that takes a singular amount of courage, the kind we seek in our Companions."

Athis took another long drink of ale. He couldn't be hearing this right. It was a dream. The wolf had bitten him and now he was bleeding out in a row of crops, and in his blood loss he was hallucinating.

Some hallucination, though. He could taste the bitterness of the hops on his tongue, could feel the scratchy straw seat of the chair against his calves, could feel the ache of tired muscles in his legs. Would he feel all this in a dream?

Probably not.

"You're telling me I can stay?" He finally met Kodlak's eyes.

"I think you have the courage of a Companion, yes. Why don't you head to the yard and spar with Farkas." Kodlak's face became more serious. "We need to be able to count on you in the future."

Athis drained the mug. His heart was soaring, his feet couldn't stand to be still.

He was a Companion.


	3. Aela

Companions: Aela

Disclaimer: Bethesda and ZeniMax have made something awesome. I just like to play in it.

Notes: If you've read anything else I've written, you may notice some slight discrepancies between what the universe gives us and my interpretation. Sometimes I make changes for better story-telling effect, and sometimes it's because I believe the in-game source may be considered unreliable and the "truth" may be somewhat different. I will use this ability to change things judiciously, but if that bothers you, read something else.

* * *

In her dreams, she was on the hunt.

The plains of Whiterun hold spread before her, and the grasses sang in the sunlight. There was the scent of elk on the wind, a musky, wonderful aroma that called to her. She stalked through the grass, crouched, her bow ready.

And then she pounced, and there was only the wolf – the girl was gone, the girl was forgotten. The elk was beneath her, and her teeth sank into its neck, and there was blood on her muzzle. The elk thrashed, but she held tightly, tearing into its flesh. The animal's fur caught in her teeth, but the blood was intoxicating as it ran down her, and she grabbed the elk between her paws and tore at it.

When it lay dead upon the ground, she feasted. After a moment, she was joined by her mate. He rubbed against her flank as he descended upon her kill, and she felt her lust stirring at his scent.

After a kill, she always wanted him.

So, they rolled in the grass together. It was playful and dangerous; he nipped at her throat and she clawed his back, and at some point they were man and woman again, their clothes long since lost in the grasses. Skjor's back was scratched and beautiful in the dappled sunlight, and she could smell the intoxicating mingled scents of the elk's blood and of him on her skin.

Slowly, Aela came awake in her room in Jorrvaskr. Around her, stone walls and the flicker of a candle. On her bedside table sat a sad-looking wedge of cheese and a cup of water. She looked at the plate and mug with annoyance.

Meat. She needed meat.

It had to be early yet, and they'd all gone to bed quite late. There had been a lot of carousing after their return to Jorrvaskr. They had the fragments but Skjor was gone.

Skjor.

It hit her at once, as if the walls had collapsed around her. There was the memory of Skjor's body on a slab, the smell of him corrupted with death.

She remembered what happened afterwards, of shooting and stabbing and slicing, and then turning and biting and clawing - but that long moment when she'd seen his body there lingered. She'd gotten her vengeance, but what was vengeance when he was gone?

She closed her eyes in the dark of her room. Maybe she could still go back to sleep? Maybe if she tried very hard, she could return to her dream, and back to the comfort of him. She pulled the furs over her head, breathing shallowly in the tent they made. It was black in here, completely dark. If she lay still enough, perhaps she would go back to sleep.

But sleep was elusive; sleep crept away from her. She lay there for what felt like days but was likely only an hour, then gave up. She pulled the covers back with a heavy sigh and stared at the flicker of the candle on the ceiling.

When they'd first gotten together, he'd been hesitant, timid. She'd been new to the Circle and he'd known her mother, and he was so much older than her. But he'd been a legend, and she'd been drawn to him even before the Change.

Once she'd become a sister of Hircine, it had seemed inevitable. They'd always hunted together but after – now they began to tumble in the fields around Whiterun or the marshes of Hjaalmarch, sometimes as men and others as wolves. The forests of Falkreath had never seemed as alive as they did when she fell into a bed of pine needles with him atop her, and the sense that it was somehow forbidden made it even more enticing.

Aela turned and lowered her face into the bed. The scent of him was still there, but so faint.

He'd ceased sharing her bed some time ago. He'd never given her a reason, and she wasn't inclined to ask. She was too proud to go to him as a supplicant, to wonder why he had left her.

And he was gone for good. Even his smell was nearly gone.

She hung her head in her hands. There were no tears – she'd shed those yesterday before heading back to Jorrvaskr. Now there was only shame at her stupid pride, at letting him pull away from her, at thinking there would always be time for them to hunt again.

The stone floor was cold beneath her feet, but she didn't care. Aela walked to her door and poked her head around, looked out into the hall. Torches burned, but everything was quiet except for Farkas humming a song in his room across the main hall.

She waited a long moment, then ducked into Skjor's old room.

Everywhere around her, his smell lingered. She stood in it for a moment, basked in what would probably be the last time she could feel him around her. His room was nearly a mirror image of hers, but in many ways so different. He preferred to bring down bears and wolves, and those were the skins she found on the bed and the floor.

Under the bed sat a flagon of mead. She sat down on the edge of the bed, pulled it out, and took a long drink. She pulled a fur from beneath her and wrapped it around herself, drinking in the heat and the scent of it.

The door opened, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

Vilkas stood in the doorway. He looked tired; the skin around his eyes was red, and there were shadows that told her he hadn't slept in days.

"I heard," he said, and his voice was ragged.

She nodded, mute. What was there to say?

Vilkas came into the room, sat beside her. He was smaller without his armor, more lean than she remembered. The three of them – she and Vilkas and Farkas – were practically siblings, having grown up in and around the Companions. She remembered sparring with them as a child. They were only a couple years older than she, and they'd all been admitted within a year of each other.

They'd all taken the blood of the wolf together, too.

"You loved him," her shield-brother said.

There was no response but to nod; she'd thought her tears were gone, but she could feel a lump in her throat that kept words from escaping. There was nothing to say. Vilkas took the flagon from her and took a long drink. He sat, holding it and staring at his hands.

"I can't believe it."

"I couldn't bring him back. It was too far, and he was too heavy." Her voice was unrecognizable, even to her. But then, when had she ever mourned like this before? Her mother had died when she was so young Aela barely remembered her. Her father had died more recently, but still, they hadn't been close. There had been Companions that had been killed while she had been a member, but none that she'd been close to.

She'd barely gotten him out of that pit of a ruined fort. After a long rest, she'd set a fire to melt some snow and soften the ground for digging, but it hadn't been enough. She'd had to settle for building him a tomb of scavenged stones, a cairn to house his body until spring, when she could return with a shovel and more energy.

Vilkas was looking at her carefully. Did he think she was going crazy? She wondered idly if she might be.

She took the flagon back and drank from it again, more to give herself something to do than because she was thirsty. There was nothing left for her now but revenge, but in the moment she wondered if she even had the energy for it.

"We will destroy them all, you know." He said it in a curiously matter-of-fact tone. There was no tone of vengeance in Vilkas's voice, and she wondered if he was saying this for her benefit or for his.

She'd planned to rain down on the Silver Hand with fury; that wasn't a question. But that would come later; now was the time for her to grieve, not just for Skjor but for the chance she'd lost when she'd let him pull away. There would never be a litter of pups now, or another hunt through the meadows. They wouldn't taste the blood of a fresh kill together, or run through the snow with the wind in their fur.

Vilkas's hand was warm on her own. It was there only for a moment, a quick squeeze as he stood.

"He'll be in Hircine's hunting grounds," he said. He took one more sip from the flagon, and turned. At the door he paused. "I'll see you in the morning."

The door shut quietly behind him.

Hircine's hunting grounds. Of course.

They would be united one day; how could she have forgotten? He'd died with the blood of the wolf, just as he'd lived; just as she planned to. He wouldn't go to Sovngarde like most Nords – he would be in the hunting grounds with Hircine, as she would.

Someday, she'd fall in battle; she'd come out on the wrong end of someone else's sword, or a spell would hit her wrong and burst her into flames. She'd collapse in her own blood and, at that moment, she'd know that everything was going to be alright because she was on her way to the eternal hunt. And then there would be the woods – endless woods, beautiful in moonlight, with the scent of frightened animals like an elixir.

And Skjor would be there, too. They would hunt together, and they would play; they would rediscover each other under the boughs of a pine tree, and they would feast on fresh meat.

In Hircine's hunting grounds, they would be reunited for eternity.

Suddenly, Aela was hungry again. If she hurried, she could be out on the plains before dawn.

It was time to hunt.


	4. Torvar

Companions: Torvar

Disclaimer: Bethesda and ZeniMax have made something awesome. I just like to play in it.

Notes: If you've read anything else I've written, you may notice some slight discrepancies between what the universe gives us and my interpretation. Sometimes I make changes for better story-telling effect, and sometimes it's because I believe the in-game source may be considered unreliable and the "truth" may be somewhat different. I will use this ability to change things judiciously, but if that bothers you, read something else.

* * *

Torvar was heading back to Whiterun from Rorikstead when he saw it. If he hadn't been so distracted, thinking about the bandits he'd just put down and where he would stop to drink away the coin he'd earned, he would have known it for what it was right away. At first he thought it was a cloud, and he wondered why it was so much darker than the clouds around and behind it; shouldn't it be the same moody grey as those, instead of black and billowing?

His eyes traced the line of the cloud towards the ground, where it was hidden beneath a low, rocky hill. It pulsed like his son's cord had at birth. And that was the memory that triggered his understanding.

Fire. Something was burning over the horizon; something big.

It was only a moment before he took off. As he always had, often to his own detriment, Torvar ran towards the danger instead of away. Something was burning and so he would try to help, and if that later proved to be a bad idea, he would pay for it.

That was just the way it went.

…

He had been sixteen when he convinced Silje to marry him. She was two years older, a famer's daughter turned shield-maid, and had always disdained him when they were younger. When he was ten, he would tell her that someday she'd be his wife, and she'd laugh and punch him and run away. She'd never taken him seriously until midsummer the year he turned fifteen.

It was around then that girls started giving him looks as he passed by them in the village. He'd catch them going silent when he approached and then giggling as he walked away; at first it made him nervous and then, one day, his older brother explained what was happening.

"They did it with me, too," Thorstein said. At twenty, his brother was strong and blond and carried a huge steel sword on his back. He worked in the smithy, and his arms were massive. "It means they like you."

Torvar began spending more time around the girls, and in a matter of days, Silje had begun showing up where he did, joining his conversations, staring at him when she thought he wasn't looking and meeting his eyes longer than was natural. It had taken no time at all for him to catch her behind the tavern and steal a kiss, and by the next summer they were betrothed. He bought a small farm, tried growing his man's beard. They were wed before Last Seed in the village square. She wore ribbons in her hair, blue and red weaving through the golden curls.

It was all he'd ever wanted, and if he'd known it would be over before he was twenty, he might have paid better attention.

It was three weeks after his son was born that the raiders struck the village, burning everything in sight. He had been away at the market selling crops, and stopped in the tavern for a drink before the long ride home. When the raiders came at him on the rode, he lost the horse and all the coin he'd made that day hawking turnips and cabbages.

Their farm was one of the first to go up, Torvar heard later. Silje and the boy never stood a chance, not with how weak she was after the birth. Later, he found their bodies still in the bed, charred and too hot to touch. His son's remains were so small the grave was barely longer than Torvar's foot.

He wondered, interminably, what their ends had been like; had the smoke gotten them, or had the raiders slashed their throats first? Had his wife been raped, or his son tortured?

These thoughts haunted him.

The house was reduced to embers but he lived in it anyway, surviving on the gold the raiders had undoubtedly been searching for, safe under the loose stone in the hearth. The irony of this did not escape him.

Nights were spent in the tavern, until he got as drunk as possible. Sometimes someone helped him home, but some nights were spent in the mud. One memorable morning he woke up in a pig pen with his arms wrapped around a sow. He ceased farming and the garden lay fallow.

When Skjor had come through some time later – two years? Five? He'd lost track of time entirely and knew only that it was a wet day in late autumn - they'd gotten into a brawl outside the tavern. Mead-sodden as Torvar was, the older man had seen something in him. Skjor told him to clean himself up and show up in Whiterun if he wanted a purpose.

He'd been able to do about half that; he'd made it to Whiterun two weeks later with aged leather armor purchased with the last of his coin, a shield that had seen better days, and a chip the size of the Throat of the World on his shoulder.

Instead of the life he thought he'd have, in bucolic bliss with the girl of his dreams, Torvar settled for smashing in skulls and drinking mead whenever his pockets jingled. Every so often, Skjor would try to convinve him to put down the drink, but after a day or so, Torvar's hands would begin to shake so he could barely hold a sword and his head would ache so he could barely put two words together, and he'd find his way back to the tavern.

It was too late for him.

They'd fight, him and Skjor. Sometimes with words, others with fists. Perhaps Skjor felt responsible for him, but Torvar didn't know why and, most days, didn't care. When he lay in the mud behind Jorrvaskr, his face inches from a cobblestone, beaten by Skjor once again, he thought about telling them all why he was so angry, but then the idea drifted away again.

It didn't matter; talking about it wouldn't change what had happened. It wouldn't bring back what he'd lost.

Instead, he did as they asked; he ran to the danger, and when it passed and he still found his feet in Skyrim, he wondered what the point of it all was.

…

Whoever had set the fire was long gone when he crested the hill and began the final push towards the burning homestead. In the distance, the spires of Whiterun stood tall; it looked so far, but there would be no help from the city. The closest streams were too far, and while the sky promised rain, it hadn't yet delivered.

Torvar's breath was heavy in his lungs; he heaved as he ran down the hill, his feet not going as fast as his legs. He'd crash and roll and impale himself on his own sword if he wasn't careful, and wouldn't that be a pathetic way to go?

He slowed his pace even though he yearned to reach the house as quickly as possible, and sheathed his sword as he ran. Outside the house, he dropped his heavy shield in the grass.

There was no sign of life around the homestead; the crops were long incinerated and the hay spread for the chickens was no more than ash. The house was still burning, but when Torvar tore through the door, he found no bodies, only fading flames.

No one to save. No chance at redemption.

He looked through the whole house, trying to ignore the heaving of the roof above him. Perhaps the timbers, worn down by fire, would collapse on his head and end his miserable life.

If only he was so lucky.

But the roof held, and no matter how he searched, he found no one. Not a living soul, not a single corpse, not even a chicken. No children hiding under the bed and no bodies that would be left undiscovered for the crows. Nothing but embers and crackling wood. When he made his way back outside, the clouds had parted and a single beam of sunlight shone down and over the hill, towards Whiterun.

He stood in the road, the heat from the dying fire warming his back, and sighed in dismay. Ahead of him lay another lonely night at the meadery; behind, a fire that had refused to kill him. He stood there, and sighed.

After a long moment, he picked up his shield and resumed the endless trudge to Whiterun. So passed a moment full of promise for heroism and ripe with redemption that was, as always, unfulfilled.


	5. Njada

Companions: Njada

Disclaimer: Bethesda and ZeniMax have made something awesome. I just like to play in it.

Notes: If you've read anything else I've written, you may notice some slight discrepancies between what the universe gives us and my interpretation. Sometimes I make changes for better story-telling effect, and sometimes it's because I believe the in-game source may be considered unreliable and the "truth" may be somewhat different. I will use this ability to change things judiciously, but if that bothers you, read something else.

* * *

With the door cracked open, Njada could hear the carousing downstairs in the common room of the Bee and Barb. It was early yet, and she sat on her rented bed, waiting for the laughter by the fire to grow loud enough that she could sneak out. She could hear Vilkas's voice drifting up the stairs as he argued with Aela over something; beneath that was the low rumble of Farkas talking to a girl, who giggled. It was probably the insipid redhead he'd been ensconced in the corner with when she'd gone upstairs, claiming a headache. Just the sight of him talking to that girl had made her angry.

Well, angrier than normal.

There were other voices talking down there, laughing, and a bard singing that song about Ragnar the Red. His tone was off-key. When the babble had risen loudly enough, Njada stood. She glanced in the mirror, winced at the horror that was her ridiculous gray hair, and jammed her helmet on.

Better. How frustrating it was to have an entire head of gray hair at twenty-five. No wonder – no, there was no time for vanity or self-pity.

She snuck down the stairs, boots in her hand, her feet as silent as a cat's. She'd spent enough time making her way up and down these stairs as a girl, and sure enough, they still squeaked in the same places; at the third step from the bottom, she leapt quietly to the floor below.

No one heard her, no one saw her as she snuck out the door. It was rare she needed to use the gifts she'd acquired in childhood, but every once in a while they came in handy.

The streets of Riften were still alive this early; merchants were still packing up, and across the market square a blacksmith was still hammering. Berin must have given the shop over, then, because he always knocked off before six and headed over to the inn for a barrel of mead. By half-past nine, he wouldn't have noticed a hagraven tap-dancing on the bar, let alone Njada's slim fingers in her purse.

It was a short walk to the orphanage, but Njada took her time. Around her, people were saying good night to each other and elves leaving the meadery were headed the bunkhouse. The bustle was great for lifting a few coins here and there, and she felt the old urge tickling her fingers as it always did when she was back in Riften. It would be so easy to bump into someone and slide her index and middle fingers into their pockets all while apologizing for not paying attention.

People were so stupid. A glance the other way and they would fall for anything.

But she wasn't a thief anymore; she hadn't been, not for a long time. Not since she'd gotten her first shield and found the joy one could only discover in beating the deserving senseless.

She passed the temple of Mara, where some stupid priest was handing out those damn leaflets again, as if anyone cared. She tried to avoid his eyes, but it was too late, or she was too slow.

"Blessings of Mara upon you," he said, thrusting a slip of paper into her hands. She glanced at it – the same drivel about Mara that they'd been forcing upon the public since…well, since forever. It was complete bullshit – the Divines didn't help anyone. Hell, Njada wasn't even sure they existed. They'd certainly never paid much attention to her, if they were real after all.

She crumpled up the paper and tossed it to the ground in front of the priest, then spat on it for good measure. He looked stunned, but then turned away.

Coward.

Njada turned, somehow senselessly annoyed that she'd dodged a fight, and continued on her way.

The orphanage, when she came to it, was much as she remembered. It looked half-abandoned, the weeds and other plants out front grown over the walkway, the windows dark. It had to be close to nine now, and that meant Grelod would surely be in bed. Njada made her way to the low stone wall that created a courtyard around one end of the building and paused.

Even now, all these years later, it took every ounce of willpower that she possessed to look around her and begin the climb over the wall. No one was coming and the closest guard wasn't looking her way, so she reached up and gripped the top of a stone with her right hand, using her left foot to push off the ground. Then her left hand made its way up the rock, and her right foot found purchase. Quickly – faster than she'd thought possible – she made her way to the top of the wall.

There were iron spikes up here, but she just balanced over them and then leapt off the wall into the courtyard. The front door would be locked, but this one was almost always open; few people could climb that wall, and who would try to steal anything from an orphanage?

No, the spikes were to keep the children in, not to keep robbers out.

When she opened the door, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Inside were rows and rows of beds; she thought she could see a few children looking at her with wide eyes, but the fire had been banked and the light was low. Any child who'd spent any amount of time at Honorhall knew better than to wake Grelod anyway.

If the building caught fire, they'd certainly let her sleep through her own death.

Njada made her way to the other end of the building, and knocked quietly on the bedroom door there. The building was silent, and she wondered if she should knock again or just go in, and then the door opened.

Just a crack at first, and through it, Njada could see a sliver of olive skin, a tendril of dark hair, and one large eye. Her mouth – her beautiful, luscious mouth – opened and she whispered in the most evocative tone, "_Njada_."

In that moment, Njada pushed her way into the room. Constance stepped gracefully back even as her hands made it to Njada's shoulders. The clicked shut behind them and Njada twisted the lock – and then her lips were on Constance's, and her fingers, usually so nimble, were fumbling at the laces of the other woman's yellow dress. Why were there so many laces? It was if Constance was trying to keep her out.

Constance tasted the way she always did, of lavender and honey. Her breath was sweet, and her hair smelled like woodsmoke. Njada, who never drank anything but water, felt intoxicated just by the scent of her.

It had been too long.

…

Afterwards, they lay together on Constance's tiny bed, their legs intertwined, the sheet kicked to the foot of the bed. The roughspun blanket was twisted around Njada's left foot, and if she wasn't so blissful, it would be very uncomfortable. She held Constance's left hand in her right and watched their fingers dance together in the flickering firelight. The room smelled of sweat and lavender and smoke. If only she didn't have to leave –

"I've missed you," Constance finally said. It was the first time she'd spoken a coherent sentence since Njada knocked on the door.

This argument again.

"If you'd only move to Whiterun, things would be different," Njada responded.

"You know I can't do that," Constance said, as Njada had known she would. "I can't leave the children. You know what how it is for them." A long pause. "You know what would happen."

A flicker of memory a half-forgotten memory: a dark room, chains on her wrists, a moldy crust of bread and a bucket overfilling with filth. Weeks without baths, being beaten with a belt, begging for a sip of water.

Constance always knew how to stop this argument. But she would, wouldn't she? She'd been there, too.

And she'd been brave enough; she'd never left.

Njada looked at her lover's fingers, tangled around her own. It was safe in here, but soon enough she would have to go back outside, into the orphanage, then into the courtyard, then back into Riften.

Constance's fingers were long and slim like the rest of her. Njada felt a pair of lips kiss her collarbone; her breath hitched as she considered lingering for a few minutes longer. It had been so long since her last visit, and who knew when she would be able to return?

"I know you can't leave," she said finally. "But right now I'm still trying to save as much money as possible."

"I know, my love," Constance sighed, leaning her head on Njada's shoulder. "But someday, we'll make it work."

Njada looked down at her lover's body and traced the line of one thigh with her index finger. She hoped her callouses didn't bother Constance, but surely the other woman would tell her if they did. She could hear Constance's breathing quicken.

The time for talk was over.


	6. Farkas

Companions: Farkas

Disclaimer: Bethesda and ZeniMax have made something awesome. I just like to play in it.

Notes: If you've read anything else I've written, you may notice some slight discrepancies between what the universe gives us and my interpretation. Sometimes I make changes for better story-telling effect, and sometimes it's because I believe the in-game source may be considered unreliable and the "truth" may be somewhat different. I will use this ability to change things judiciously, but if that bothers you, read something else.

* * *

Farkas sat on his bed in Jorrvaskr's basement, trying to think.

It was like having a bunch of gravel rolling about in his head, trying to make a decision. He had a difficult enough time laying out strategy when he was given an assignment and usually just defaulted to running in like a madman and hoping it worked out alright, which it usually did. But trying to make a decision like this -

A knock at the door. His brother poked his head around, "Can I come in?"

Farkas nodded.

Vilkas came around the door and closed it behind him. His brother, for all their other similarities, was much smaller than he. At fifteen, Farkas stood head and shoulders over every other person in Whiterun. Where most boys his age were gangly or skinny, Farkas was _big_. He worked at his muscles and trained in the yard like every other Companion, but even for all that, he had grown bigger than anyone expected. Aela jokingly called him Mount Farkas, and Eorlund had had a hell of a time making armor to fit him.

In comparison, his brother was compact and lean, but strong just the same, and smart – Vilkas had learned to think fast. Where Farkas just hoped the Divines were on his side and that he would get lucky, Vilkas was able to get his opponents to trip over their own feet or make poor decisions in the heat of the moment. Farkas just hit them hard and fast and didn't let up.

Vilkas sat on the bed next to his brother. Both boys were silent.

"I think we should do it," Vilkas finally said. "It will help make us better warriors."

That was a solid point, a larger piece of gravel than the rest.

"But what about Sovngarde?" Farkas asked. This was another big chunk of gravel. Both of these pieces were together were turning his brain to mush.

The earliest memory Farkas had was of sitting on a fur by the hearth in Jorrvaskr, listening to the exploits of the Companions and the legend of Ysgramor, his fingers tangled in bear fur. He was warm and safe, leaning against his brother, a cup of small beer in his hand. His belly was full, and the tales had filled his mind with dreams of glory, and he was getting ready to drift off to sleep. Jergen looked down at him with a grin, the scar on the man's cheek still new and raw, and he kissed Farkas on the top of the head. He must have been about four.

The greatest of these stories were those about Sovngarde, where they would live forever in the Hall of Valor, drinking and dining and brawling. Farkas spent the rest of his childhood dreaming of Sovngarde, of the way the mead would taste and the excitement of meeting the long-dead heroes of Skyrim.

Vilkas looked uncomfortable; he shifted in his seat. Farkas tried to meet his eye, but Vilkas looked everywhere around the room but at his brother.

"I don't think werewolves go to Sovngarde."

"Where do they go?"

"Aela says they go to Hircine's hunting grounds."

A Daedra. Farkas had forgotten that this would involve a Daedra.

Another big chunk of rock that hurt his head. He was becoming less certain about what to do by the minute.

"I want to go to Sovngarde." It came out like a pout; his voice cracked on the word "want" and Farkas cursed himself in his head. It would be nice when his voice caught up with his body and didn't come out sounding so puny, so immature.

At this Vilkas finally met his eyes. "I know. But I wonder if we shouldn't take this opportunity while we can."

Looking into Vilkas's eyes was like looking into a mirror; everyone said that their eyes were the same. Farkas just wished he could understand what his brother was thinking better.

"Aela wants to do it, when she'd older. She says her mother was one."

That explained a lot. Aela's mother, the shield-maid Petra, was one of the most fearsome Companions they'd ever heard of. Neither of the brothers remembered her that well, but both had heard stories of her bravery from Skjor, who'd served with her in the Great War. Rumors abounded that she and Jergen had some sort of romantic entanglement before they went off to war, but she'd returned from the front lines alone, and that had been that. She'd been known as an able huntress, and had often returned from assignments with fresh game.

Her daughter was half-wild already. Hircine's hunting grounds would be a picnic for her; Farkas didn't think it would be so easy for him.

The rocks were rolling in his head again, but instead of gravel, now Farkas felt boulders.

"Who knows, there might even be a cure for it," Vilkas said suddenly. "We might not have to do it forever." There was a grim set to his face and his tone didn't match the optimism of his words. Farkas wondered if his brother was as certain as he'd seemed earlier.

Not much for tact or subtext, he figured he'd just say it: "It doesn't sound like you want to do this."

Vilkas looked surprised. He often had that look when Farkas said what he thought.

"It's not that I don't want to. Or that I do. I just –" he paused to collect his thoughts. Farkas could wait. "I see both sides."

"I don't think I want to do it," Farkas replied. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed too scary, too permanent. He didn't do well with uncertainty, and he didn't want to consider the consequences of getting involved with the Daedra. He didn't know a lot about them, but the priests always made it out to be a bad thing.

If there was one thing Farkas wanted to be, it was good.

"I still think we should think more about it. Kodlak doesn't need an answer right away. And it really will make us better warriors."

"How?"

Vilkas paused. It seemed he hadn't given that part much thought. It was a moment before he spoke. "Well, we'll heal faster without any potions. And if we get disarmed, we'll be able to change and attack with claws and teeth."

Well, that did sound promising. Maybe this was something to consider.

"What else?"

Vilkas wrinkled his forehead, thinking. "I guess I don't know."

"But we'd have to give up any chance of going to Sovngarde," Farkas said, with certainty.

"Yes."

"Unless we find a cure."

"Yes."

"Which we could avoid doing if we just don't become werewolves in the first place."

His brother was silent.

"I don't know if I want to do it," Farkas finally repeated. "I want to be with Ysgramor and Hakon One-Eye and the others when I die. You can do it if you want to."

"But then you'll be in Sovngarde and I'll be with Hircine," Vilkas said. There wasn't exactly panic in his voice, but he didn't sound pleased about this, either.

That stopped Farkas cold. He turned and looked at his brother. An eternity in Sovngarde without Vilkas? What would the point in being with Hakon One-Eye be if his brother wasn't there?

They were two sides of a coin, brains and brawn. Without Vilkas, he wouldn't make sense.

He would have to trust his brother's brains, just as he always had; Vilkas would know what to do. And if they regretted their choice, and there was a cure to be found, Vilkas would find it.

And if not, at least they would be together. As they'd always been.

"You really want to do this?"

Vilkas nodded after a moment. "I do."

There was that certainty again – Vilkas always knew what to do. Sometimes he had to talk it out, but in the end, Farkas could trust him to make the decisions for them both because – as they both knew – Vilkas had the brains. And Vilkas, five minutes older, would always take care of him.

Even after they died, whether they went to Sovngarde or not.

"Alright then, I guess we're going to become werewolves. I don't want to go to Sovngarde without my brother."

A grin broke across Vilkas's face.

"Me neither."


	7. Vilkas

Companions: Vilkas

Disclaimer: Bethesda and ZeniMax have made something awesome. I just like to play in it.

Notes: If you've read anything else I've written, you may notice some slight discrepancies between what the universe gives us and my interpretation. Sometimes I make changes for better story-telling effect, and sometimes it's because I believe the in-game source may be considered unreliable and the "truth" may be somewhat different. I will use this ability to change things judiciously, but if that bothers you, read something else.

* * *

Vilkas was _tired_.

It wasn't lack of sleep, although that was certainly one of the problems he was facing. It wasn't that he had been walking all afternoon back towards Jorrvaskr, although he'd been on the road so long that the cold seemed to have settled into his bones.

He kept seeing them coming, the Silver Hand, in flimsy fur armor and armed with glinting weapons and righteousness. He saw them slay Kodlak; he saw them die in Driftshade Refuge, no match for his own skill with a blade and – when disarmed – fury with his claws. He'd just left them there, the smell of blood cloying in their fort turned crypt, their bodies ripped apart.

His blood had boiled the whole first day on his trip back. It was as he was making camp that evening that he began to calm, and a strange regret overtook him.

Because they were right.

They weren't right to kill Kodlak, he mused as he began setting up his small tent. Kodlak had been a good man, a good leader, and master of the beast inside. Kodlak, Vilkas knew, had struggled with the wolf too. He hadn't given in and enjoyed it as Aela did, as Skjor had.

As he sometimes did.

It was hard to find burnable wood out here in the mountains that bordered The Pale. It was bad enough that he'd had to make camp perched like a goat on the side of a cliff, but trying to start a fire was proving impossible. He moved through the braken, keeping his tent in sight. The snow that perpetually seemed to fall out here was picking up, and he reflected that any wood he did find would probably be too wet to burn.

He made his way slowly back towards the tent, a black shape in the graying woods. His hair was wet, and cold, and would start freezing soon. It would have been smarter to stay at the fort, but the hunger that rose up inside his stomach at the smell of all that blood disgusted him. He wasn't sure if he could be trusted to stay all night in that tomb under the snow with the bodies around him without giving in.

Inside the tent was still cold, but when he tied the flap closed and settled inside his furs, it wasn't long before he ceased seeing each of his breaths come out in a cloud of steam. Then there was nothing to do but the sit alone with his thoughts.

And what thoughts they were! Regrets piled upon each other like a ramshackle house built by a madman.

For all Kodlak said he was the smart one, it had been Vilkas who had chosen to take the beast blood – chosen for him and for his brother – and now they were damned. Now he would never see Sovngarde, and now he had given in to vengeance.

He couldn't think of a less honorable reason to fight.

Perhaps a bear would come along in the night and slaughter him; perhaps the snow would fall so heavily his tent would collapse and he would suffocate. It would be easy to go in his sleep.

Vilkas didn't think he deserved an easy death. No, for what he'd done – for what he'd become – he deserved to be torn apart and to feel every moment of it.

…

Dawn took forever in coming, and when it was light enough inside the tent to make it out, Vilkas found he was still alive. Death had passed him by this time.

He took a piece of salted venison – courtesy of Aela – from a pouch and chewed it like cud as he struck down his tent. The snow had stopped during the night, and what had fallen was light and shook easily from the canvas roof of his tent. Before long, he was walking along again, climbing back down the mountain, headed for the border of The Pale.

Alone with his thoughts and nothing to occupy his mind but putting one foot ahead of another.

Farkas had been the wise one in this case, as he was more often the Vilkas would admit to himself. It had been Farkas who'd asked if they needed to take the beast blood, Farkas who'd thrown up every road block that he himself had been all too willing to blindly race past in his quest for more power.

More power, and now more regret.

Of course.

The Silver Hand's method was abhorrent, and they'd deserved everything he'd delivered upon them. There was no doubt about that.

But they had had a point.

Around him, the woods became whiter and less gray as sunlight, filtered through heavy clouds, made its way down to him. The trees were still dark against the snowy ground, the ridges in the bark traced in snow and ice. It was unlikely to get above freezing today and yet he was beginning to sweat inside his armor.

By the position of the sun – as best as he could tell – it was about mid-day that Vilkas finally came upon the road he'd been looking for. He turned south, and his boots rang out on the cobblestones. Normally he didn't mind the sound – let every beast and man in a mile hear him coming – but today he felt too weary and distracted to pick a fight. Idly, he envied those masters of stealth that could make their way through the countryside in secret. He'd always thought that those with the talent to sneak were cowards, but for the first time he understood the allure of being unseen.

Vilkas had had barely a moment to reflect on this when the thief appeared in front of him. Covered head-to-toe in worn brown leather, it was difficult to tell what race the thief was. He was as tall as Vilkas and built like a warhorse. His accent, when he spoke, was difficult to place. He didn't sound like a Nord, but Vilkas couldn't figure out where he was from, if it was even part of Tamriel.

"Give me all your gold."

Vilkas barked out a laugh.

"I haven't any, friend." It wasn't a lie. He didn't have so much as a septim on him. It was clear from his posture that the thief didn't believe him.

"What about that?" The thief gestured to the pouch that hung from Vilkas's waist. Inside, the fragments of Wuuthrad that he'd recovered from the refuge were heavy. A broken piece leaned sharply into his thigh, but he held still, waiting.

Vilkas laughed again. "It's not what you think," he said. "It has value, but not to the likes of you."

Under the thief's hood, Vilkas saw the other man's eyes narrow. "What does that mean?" He hissed.

This wasn't going well.

"I mean," Vilkas said, an edge to his voice, "that it has not value to one who would pawn it."

It was at that moment that the thief attacked. His blade was thin, and long, and black edged with red. Vilkas had seen its' like only once before: daedric-forged.

_Of course_ it would be a daedric blade.

It was an easy enough thing to step aside as the thief lunged at him. For all his fine leather armor and his fancy weapon, the thief was big and clumsy and didn't redirect well as Vilkas angled his body away. As he turned, he pulled his big sword from its sheath and held it at the ready, waist high.

When the thief turned, it was easy enough to smack the flat of his blade against the thief's side. There was a dull thump as it hit him, and the thief groaned.

"This is your last chance," Vilkas growled. "Go about your business and leave me alone and you'll get to keep all your parts."

But the thief didn't listen and instead reached for the pouch that held the fragments of Wuuthrad.

Vilkas casually turned his sword in his hands, and the Skyforge steel cut through the thief's flimsy armor like a hot blade through butter, right through the stomach. Blood dotted the snow.

The thief dropped to his knees, then onto his face. The red snow spread. In moments, the thief had bled out and stopped twitching.

Vilkas stood for a moment, sad. It had been too easy to dispose of this thief; there was no honor in this kill. No one would sing of his defense of Wuuthrad, because no one would know, and he felt no desire to share the story with his brothers.

The wolf had risen again. It had given him the strength he'd needed.

But at what cost?


	8. Skjor

Companions: Skjor

Disclaimer: Bethesda and ZeniMax have made something awesome. I just like to play in it.

Notes: If you've read anything else I've written, you may notice some slight discrepancies between what the universe gives us and my interpretation. Sometimes I make changes for better story-telling effect, and sometimes it's because I believe the in-game source may be considered unreliable and the "truth" may be somewhat different. I will use this ability to change things judiciously, but if that bothers you, read something else.

* * *

Jorrvaskr wasn't big enough to get away from her. Everywhere he turned, it seemed, she was there. Instead of standard armor, she wore some sort of ancient armor she'd found in some damn tomb or another. It didn't seem to cover enough of her, yet Skjor never saw her with a wound, no matter what she went up against. Perhaps it was enchanted; perhaps it was just the beast blood giving her the agility to dodge everything that came her way.

But the way she moved around the meadhall was distracting, to say the least. It was becoming harder and harder to come up with excuses not to hunt with her, but somehow he knew that if he was alone with her, it was all over.

He was old enough to be her father, for fuck's sake. Having these feelings was just…wrong.

The way she looked, the way she looked at him – a bard would have said her eyes were like moonlight, but Skjor didn't think in with such flowery language. All he knew was that her eyes reflected the same want that he felt every time he looked at her pale skin, peeking through the armor.

He sat at one of the massive tables in the upstairs of Jorrvaskr. Aela wasn't due back until at least tomorrow – some trouble in Hjaalmarch had demanded her attention – and so the main hall was safe until at least then. He was munching irritably on some roasted goat and wondering why, when he was trying so hard to clear his mind of thoughts of Aela, she kept creeping back in.

Next to him, Farkas let out a grunt.

"What is it?" It was certainly rude, but it was hard not to snap. The damn whelp was always letting out some groan or other; it was like living with an oversized pup.

"He took a bad slice in the ribs the other day," Njada piped up from across the table. She was a sour one; her face always looked at if someone had socked her with a raw lemon. She was picking at her fish. When he was new to Jorrvaskr and drunk with mead, Skjor had tried to get into her bed once, and she'd hit him so hard with her shield that he'd seen stars for days. He'd had a grudging respect for her ever since, even as he found her grousing bitter and obnoxious.

Farkas groaned again, then stood, clutching his stomach. "I think I shouldn't have eaten those clams," he said, and ran for the privy.

The door swung open and let in a waft of fresh air. The fire guttered in the hearth and Skjor smelled Aela before he saw her: a hint of clover and pine needles, and the aroma of a deer she'd killed the day before still in her armor. On her heels was Torvar, the newest recruit. He smelled of ale and desperation.

"You're back early," Kodlak said from the stairs.

"Yes. It turned out the necromancers were easier to deal with than we anticipated," Aela said, setting down a large bundle near the hearth. Even from here, Skjor could smell the venison within, and the blood was tempting. He took another bite of the goat in his hands and chewed mechanically.

But he wasn't really hungry, not for food, and he knew it.

"Good, because we need to set out immediately."

"Trouble?" Aela was young, and the young were always hungry for action.

"Yes," Kodlak answered after a moment. "Down in Cyrodiil. Skjor," he turned and Skjor grimaced. "You and Aela should leave immediately for the border."

This wasn't good. Alone, on the road to Cyrodiil, for weeks at a time? He was having a hard enough time here, when he could escape. He could hardly leave her at some roadside encampment.

"I think the whelp should go," Skjor said. Good, deflect. Make someone else deal with it.

Kodlak narrowed his eyes. That look told Skjor everything – the old man knew. "Yes," he said shrewdly after a moment. "Perhaps it would be best for Torvar to go as well."

"We could probably benefit from your experience, though." When had she gotten so close to him? Aela stood almost directly in front of him, her head cocked to one side the way a pup would when they knew what you wanted. This close, he felt as though her eyes could see right through him, into the disgusting pit of desire. It was just the two of them in the hall right then – she glowed in the firelight, and he had a brief fantasy of running his hand down her side, from under her shoulder blade, across her narrow waist, and landing on her hip. Her skin would feel like a flower petal; the smell of her would be overpowering.

Skjor felt his stomach roil. No.

No, no, no. No.

"I suppose Skjor and I could both go as well," Kodlak said after a long moment.

"What are we up against?" Torvar had been forgotten. He still stood by the door, his eyes obviously focused on a bottle of mead that sat near Skjor on the table. "Do we have time to…eat?"

…

Their third night on the road, and Skjor spent all day and all night wondering when it might happen. He'd never wanted to end up here, and it was just weird after how he'd ended up a Companion anyway. It had been her mother that had told him to look them up during the Great War, and it had been a chance encounter with her years later in a tavern in Falkreath that had brought the idea back up.

He owed Petra his place in the world, and he wasn't going to mess with her memory by fucking her daughter.

Now they were back in the same damn tavern in the town of Helgen. The mead here was sweetened with juniper berries, and there was a bard singing about Ragnar the Red, as if no one had ever heard the damn story before. Skjor sat in the darkest corner he could fine, stewing over his situation and wondering exactly which of the Divines he'd pissed off to end up here.

It was the lust: if he could just think of Aela as a shield-sister instead of…well, the way he was thinking about her, then everything would be fine. Instead, he kept considering what she looked like without her armor, and then getting angry with himself. The cycle was getting old, and Skjor wasn't much for introspection anyway. Considering his own feelings and why he was having them was just frustrating.

The bard was taking this song too seriously and trying to play up the drama instead of the humor in the song; Skjor wanted to put a sword through the man's face, but thought that might be frowned upon. He settled for frowning to himself and taking another swig of his mead.

Junipier berries. Honestly, what were they thinking down here? Mead should taste like mead, not a damn tree.

Perhaps it was the mead; perhaps it was the scent of wood smoke and the overwhelming irritation he was feeling. Either way, he didn't detect Aela until she was sitting next to him. She waited what felt like a long time before she spoke.

"When we get back to Whiterun, I think we should go for a hunt together." This was one of the things he found most attractive about her; she didn't dance around. She got to the point.

The scent of her was overwhelming this close; the wolf inside him wanted to mount her right there, in the middle of the common hall, and it took all the power the man had to stop himself. But she smelled so good, so willing –

"I don't think that would be a good idea," he told her.

Best to nip this in the bud.

"And why is that?" She met his eyes again, and again he found himself foundering. Why was he fighting this so hard, anyway?

"Because…it's not right for shield-siblings to…hunt together," he finally said.

"Any why is that?" She repeated with the same inflection. Not teasing, not flirting, but curious. She was so close that when she leaned forward, one of her armored breasts lightly brushed his arm. The leather was soft, supple; a tease of what lay beneath.

It was at this moment that Skjor had a flash of the future. He'd heard of oracles, who could see entire fates in a moment and make predictions. This was similar, but was focused on just the two of them. He could see them heading upstairs to bed together; he could see them coming together. He could see them turning into beasts and mating under the light of the full moon, and he could see the inevitable end. He would grow older than her, faster than she would, and she would leave him for someone her own age, someone faster and stronger than he.

And he would have to watch it.

He leaned back, trying to get away from her and at the same time look like he wasn't. "It's not a good idea," he said. Even to him, this sounded lame.

He probably would have held firm to this idea – the image of her, running off with some new blood half his age was still printed brightly in his mind – if she hadn't leaned forward then, and kissed him.

The smell of her enveloped him. The room and everyone around them ceased to be. She tasted of roast meat and that damned mead with the juniper berries and beneath that, something more organic and sensual. Her lips pressed against his for a long moment, and her tongue lightly touched the inside of his mouth, and then she pulled back.

That was all it took to melt his resolve. After that, no matter how hard he fought it, he was hers.


	9. Njada II

Companions: Njada II

Disclaimer: Bethesda and ZeniMax have made something awesome. I just like to play in it.

Notes: If you've read anything else I've written, you may notice some slight discrepancies between what the universe gives us and my interpretation. Sometimes I make changes for better story-telling effect, and sometimes it's because I believe the in-game source may be considered unreliable and the "truth" may be somewhat different. I will use this ability to change things judiciously, but if that bothers you, read something else.

There was something about that dark elf that just set her off. Just looking at him made Njada's teeth hurt. It wasn't just that he'd failed his trial, and while she'd barely been admitted after bashing a trio of frost trolls to death in some glacier up north. It wasn't just the way that he offered to help train her with a sword, as if her skill was in some way lacking. It wasn't just that he'd come in after her and yet for some reason the rest of them treated him as if he was somehow more valued.

No, she'd always hated Athis. From the first moment she'd seen him, looking a little lost in the mead hall, she'd wanted to take her shield and smash his teeth.

But she'd never wanted it more than when she saw him outside the orphanage early that morning, leaning against the wall of the keep and smiling that sly half-grin that would look so much better once she'd bloodied his face.

She wondered for a moment if he'd actually seen her; it was dark, and he couldn't possibly have gotten much rest, and she hadn't forgotten all the training she'd received in the Guild. Maybe she could still drift into the shadows -

"I know you're there." His voice, with that snooty accent, was like an ice pick in her head.

Njada froze.

"Interesting to see you here," Athis continued, uncrossing his arms and taking a step closer to her. A breeze blew; there was the stink of the canal and a golden leaf caught on her boot. She tensed, her shield-arm instinctively rising.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. They miss that poor old woman, and I know Kodlak will wonder what happened to me."

There was a moment where her vision went red. There was the memory of her last visit: Constance cowering on the floor with Grelod's boot in her stomach. Then Njada's shield was in her hand, and the old woman had gone down so easily. The only thing she remembered clearly was the soft thump the old woman's body made as it hit the floor, and the slowly-spreading pool of blood on the kitchen floor.

"What do you know about it?" She leaned to her left, seeking an advantage.

But he was too clever; he shifted away from her. It was barely noticeable, but she saw his hand inching closer to his sword. Would he draw faster than she could bash him?

Probably not.

"I know those poor children lost the only person left to care for them."

A laugh barked out of her. "Is that what you think?"

Now it was his turn to look surprised.

"No?"

"No."

"We can have a drink and talk about it."

"Or I could just kill you."

"You could," Athis shifted again, inching farther from range. His face was still, calm. "I think the others will notice if I don't return."

"Maybe we were accosted by bandits. Or failed in our task."

"Mayhap. But," Athis began to smile again. "But I think the guards have noticed us."

Indeed, when she looked around, she saw one in particular had stopped her patrol and was approaching them, torch casting dizzying shadows in time to her bootfalls.

"No lollygagging," she said brusquely as she neared Athis.

"We were just heading back to the inn." And there was something in his eyes that made her go with him.

So it was that she found herself in the Bee and Barb, in a draft corner drinking a too-warm ale with someone she despised. Njada couldn't think of a worse way to end this terrible night.

"Now. What happened?"

Njada gulped down her ale. Time to face things, she supposed.

"I was born here."

"Here?" Athis leaned over his plate, a roast rabbit leg in one hand, but he wasn't eating; he actually seemed to be listening.

"In Riften. My mam, she was a thief. No idea who my pa was." She looked desperately at the bottom of her flagon, willing more drink to materialize, and failing. She wasn't normally much of a drinker, but she was going to need courage to get through this.

"And something happened to her." Athis waved at the scaleback tending bar, indicating they needed refreshments.

"Aye. The Guild sent me to recover something from the Jarl's palace and -"

"So when you got caught, they sent you to the orphanage?"

She nodded. "Everything you've heard about her - about Grelod - is a lie. She was the foulest bitch that's ever crawled out of the midden heap. She beat us. She starved us. She used to make us fight each other, and if you won, sometimes you still got chained in the hole. She -"

She paused as the Argonian stopped by their table and refilled her flagon; when she looked, Athis had barely touched his. The floor creaked as the barkeep walked away; she waited until she was sure he was out of earshot, then lowered her voice.

"I had to, Athis." She heard the pleading tone in her voice and was disgusted. "She was going to kill Constance."

"The woman who took over the orphanage?"

She nodded again. "We came up together. And she didn't know how to leave the children - she had to stay, to keep them safe."

"That's very noble."

There was a long silence. The fire crackled in the corner. Across the room, at the bar, a drunk in black robes was trying to challenge the few patrons left to a drinking contest, but no one was going for it.

"How long have you known?"

"About your sneaking off, or about the murder?"

If he'd thought that word would make her flinch, he was wrong. Killing Grelod had been easy. The guards all thought it was some Dark Brotherhood job. No one realized it had been her.

No one, apparently, except Athis.

"Since our trip down at Mid Year."

She breathed in sharply, the air hissing between her teeth. Four months past? Grelod had been cold in the ground for months then. "You've known that long?"

"Well," Athis took a bit from his rabbit leg and chewed thoughtfully. "I suspected. But I wasn't sure until I saw you go in there tonight."

"So you waited."

He nodded. The Argonian tending the bar dropped another log on the fire. There was a shower of sparks and the wood crackled merrily. She took a long pull on her ale. It tasted sour, or maybe that was just her.

"So."

"So"

"So what now?"

He gave her a long look. In this corner, his face was shadowed. She couldn't read the expression, couldn't see much but the twinkle of his red eyes.

"Now I think I've got something on you."

So that was what this was all about. It wasn't about honor or answering for her misdeeds, no matter how well meant. It was extortion he was after. She might've known the grayskin would just try to use this to his own advantage, valor be damned.

"Fuck you and all your ancestors. If you're going to blackmail me, we may as well end this now," she stood with a clatter, the butt of her sword bumping the table. His flagon nearly tipped and he resettled it with both hands. The barkeep turned and looked at them, his reptilian face unreadable.

Now, standing, she could see the look on his face. It was panic.

"Sit down," he hissed. "It's not like that."

She hesitated. It would be easy to end him, though she didn't know what the consequences would be, with her shield-brothers or with the hold guards. Killing him here, in the tavern and in front of the few patrons left would be hard to hide.

"Sit," he gestured at the bench.

With a heavy sigh, Njada sat. The barkeep turned away and began washing flagons in a bucket at his counter. "What do you want then?"

Athis looked uncomfortable. Fidgety. She felt a flare of the old dislike again, and frowned.

"I just want you to stop picking on me."

She shifted in her seat, suddenly aware of how hard the bench was beneath her. "What do you mean?"

"Don't act like you don't know."

"I don't." But she did.

"No more slurs about the fact that I'm a Dunmer. No more cracks about my sword, or my ancestors, or punching me just because you've had a bad day."

By the Nine, he wasn't going to make this easy, was he? Briefly, she thought again about killing him. It might be better than this, even with the jail time. She drummed her fingers on the table.

"This wasn't supposed to be so hard for you," Athis said with a wry smile.

"Fine," she sighed. "I'll stop teasing."

He raised one eyebrow. "Teasing?"

"Aye." She sipped her ale. Still too sour. And now, somehow salty, too.

"I guess I'll have to take that." He took another bite of his rabbit.

"Do you have to chew so damn loud? I think they can hear you in Falkreath."

He paused and gave her a look.

"Like that."

"Sorry."

He swallowed. "Can I ask you one more thing?"

"Might as well. I'm in your debt now anyway."

The drunk in the robes screamed with laughter as the barkeep began guiding him to the door. She turned and saw another sot collapsed on the floor next to the stools; a large blonde man was trying to help him up, but with little success.

"Was she worth it?"

Her mind flashed back to Constance, to the look on her face earlier this very evening when Njada walked in the front door. The horror where there should have been joy and gratitude. The way she'd shooed Njada back out the door, her panicky voice whispering, _and don't come back_. The moment it hit her that this was over now, that Constance would never want to see her again.

The second she'd stepped outside and realized that she'd not only lost her lover, but the only place she'd thought of as home.

"Yes."


End file.
